


Albatross

by freezinginbristol



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, Gen, Multi, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6574675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezinginbristol/pseuds/freezinginbristol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the final weeks of the Civil War, something greater than a burden of the mind has taken hold of America, and may not only consume him but the rest of his household as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Washington D.C

October 17, 2014

The dust was everywhere.

Even as he brushed past an old door, the hinges looking on the verge of collapse, the cloud of it seemed to waft around the room like smoke. He was surprised that no one had noticed him leave, the trip itself taking a better part of an hour and a half.

Walking, that is.

His phone buzzes for the umpteenth time, he had lost count and the will to care fifteen minutes into his trek, but he stops by the foot of the stairs to fish the thing out of the his coat pocket. He frowns at the lighting up of the screen once more.

36 new messages.

17 missed calls.

5 new voicemails.

Again, the screen flashing the words Arthur into his eyes so much that it drilled itself into the back of his brain. Even so, he ignores the call, pushing the phone back into his pocket and shrugging off his coat, leaving it a black heap on the dusty floor before heading up the stairs.

The door wasn't even locked.

He hesitates a moment before placing his hand on the handle of the door, the only sign of uncertainty, even if for but a moment, before pushing into the room. The late afternoon sun casts a few rays of light from the boarded up windows. As he steps forward, something crunches underneath his shoes. Leaning down, he picks up the shard of glass from the shattered remains of a plate, rubbing it between his fingers. Something of a raspy exhale came out of his lungs and into the cold air as the object pressed into the flesh of his fingers.

Upon closer inspection, the grooves of fingernails running down the wood floor was still there, deep and jagged. It grew only worse on the walls themselves, and he presses a fingertip into the indentation.

"What are you doing?"

America doesn't even move to acknowledge the nation, eyes still trained on the dirty walls. Canada bites the inside of his cheek, standing in the doorframe with arms folded across his chest. Alfred's brow furrows slightly, and he speaks with eyes still focusing on the wall in front of him.

"When did you-"

"Don't take me for an idiot, Alfred. I knew you were going to leave the minute you got up to use the bathroom. I don't suppose you've been checking your phone." He holds up the object in the air as testament to the fact, the screen again flashing with another silent call from their father. Matthew presses ignore and shoves the object into his pocket.

"Do you ever look back on a place and think for a moment you've forgotten something important? Or insignificant, it doesn't matter." Alfred turns his head, blue eyes shadowed in the small room to look over his twin. "Even now, I feel like I'm missing pieces." A hand reaches up, shaking slightly to his mouth and Matthew fights back a wince as his brother's teeth close on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger with immediate force.

"You're not going to find it here." And even with his brother's word, calm and rational, America has to fight back the scream building up of you don't understand you don't know how this always comes back it doesn't leave my brain every single day like a demon monster monster I am a monster I am a monster I am a monster I am a monster I am a monster I a monster I am a monster I am a monster

Canada closes the distance between them, gripping his brother's wrist and pulling his hand away from his actions with a force that surprised them both before his arms fold around his brother's shoulders.

America whimpers, the sound low and abject.

Canada only hushes him, running a hand up and down his back as fingers curled onto the front of his jacket before he moves his hand to press firmly against his brother's chest. The nation's heartbeat was a rapid flutter of fear and remembrance.

"What happened wasn't your fault." Canada breaths.

Alfred can feel the blood pooling at their feet now, and he lifts his eyes from where his face is pressed into his brother's shoulder to lock eyes with the creature huddled on the floor. Its knees are pulled to his chest, rocking slowly back and forth and it takes America a moment to see the fresh beating heart in its hands, blood staining the pale flesh, limp and dirty blond hair flicked with crimson, and ashen grey eyes trained on the nation's form as it sinks its teeth into the beating muscle.

What are you doing? It asks, mouth moving up and down on tissue. What happened here?

America can feel the blood in his mouth from where his teeth sink into the side of his cheek.

Bad things.


	2. Chapter 2

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks  
Had I from old and young !  
Instead of the cross, the Albatross  
About my neck was hung.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner|Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"I assume you're not here for a congratulations on my part?"

The slight chuckle from the man at the table died away as the two others made no comment. His eyes flickered back and forth between the two other men, one seated in front of him, dark blue eyes unblinking and the other standing by the window, gaze set outside to the bustling streets of Washington.

"I don't think it would be wise to be so quick to congratulations and festivities given the somewhat recent events, hm?" Francis' voice was quiet, but the president could hear the hint of coldness underneath and fought back a shiver at the man's unwavering gaze on his form. Andrew Johnson cleared his throat.

"Yes, what happened to President Lincoln was unfortunate circumstances, but he died knowing that he saved this country. Speaking of which, I trust that Mr. Jones is recuperating?"

France smiled slowly, showing no teeth before breathing out a somewhat light sigh and leaning back in the low couch, draping one long arm across the back and crossing his legs. The stance reminded Johnson something of a cat. "Yes, of sorts. The boy harbors some guilt, as you may have guessed."

Johnson fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a box of matches and opening his desk drawer to pull out a cigar. France watched the man's actions with a steady gaze, waiting until he had taken a slow drag before speaking. The smoke curled from his lips in a heavy plume that seemed to hang over the room like a fog. "Mr. Jones is no more responsible for Booth's actions any more than if he had been bitten by a mad dog."

"Mad dogs are put down." The statement came from the nation by the window, vibrant green eyes still set on the mid-morning activities before wandering over to look at the president. France can practically taste his husband's distaste for the man but says nothing of it.

Johnson breaths a heavy sigh before replying. "Our best efforts are on catching him and bringing him to justice. I assumed that was universal around the world, given you British with proper technique and what not." The words are cold and seethed through a gritting set of teeth.

Arthur only chuckles, turning fully to the man and stepping forward, steps seeming to echo through the office before standing beside the low couch. "Yes, Mr. Johnson, but I'd like to believe we're a bit more…enthusiastic when it comes to doing what's right."

England wants to laugh at the flash of rage in the man's eyes before Johnson pushes it down in a forced display of calm, taking another heavy drag of his cigar. The smoke plumes in the nation's direction when he exhales. England doesn't even flinch.

"I assure you, gentlemen, that our best efforts and fastest informants are working hard to find this man. In the meantime however, there's the matter of Mr. Jones returning to representation in office."

France raised an eyebrow at the statement. "Representation?"

"Yes." Johnson set his cigar in the ashtray beside him, linking his hands together and leaning forward, posture somewhat submissive though both nations could see right through the poorly disguised ruse. "As a nation, he has a certain…morale to keep up. Both for himself and for the people during this difficult time. Now, we are all concerned for his wellbeing, but for the moment we must out our own individual desires aside and ask ourselves, 'What is best for the whole community?'

"You want him to return and start working? Now?" Even England wants to flinch at the underlying rage in his partner's tone and the fact that it went right over the president's head. Johnson nods his head, smiling widely, not noticing the groves that Arthur was working with his nails into the wooden lining of the low couch from where his hand rested.

"Given the tragic circumstances over the past few days, these past four years mind you, there is a disheartening amongst everyone. And with my own rush into office to maintain some sense of stability, it's been a difficult time for the American people. Alfred being at home doesn't do much to add some relief into that equation. And it doesn't only benefit him to be here," Johnson added with a slight chuckle, "but to my assets as well."

France can hear the grooves of wood beginning to splinter underneath England's death grip. Fortunately, the president couldn't see or hear the man's actions. France steals a glance at his husband for half a second, wanting to wince at the nation's unreadable expression. When he started doing that, something bad was going to happen.

Cher, you're going to break it. Francis thinks the words to his husband. Calm down.

I'd like to break it over his head. The bloody sod thinking he has the nerve to say that about my son-

I am not going to let you murder the President of the United States of America.

Oh, please Francis. You and I have done this enough times to know that we won't be getting caught.

"I trust this isn't a problem?" The sound of the president's voice interrupts both the nations from their thoughts before England relaxes his grip, smiling at the man before stepping closer.

"Mr. Johnson, do you have children?"

The man's smile falters for a moment. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"Do you. Have children." The words are ice cold coming for the Englishman's mouth and France only watches as he goes in for the kill.

"Yes, five of them, but I fail to see how this is relevant to the conversation at ha-"

"Have you ever had the opportunity of watching them die?" England only continue, green gaze set firmly and unblinkingly on the now steadily anxious president, who was now debating on whether or not to call security to the imposing force in front of him, but found his heart to be steadily rising in his throat.

"No. No, I have not Mr. Kirkland." The words are full of the brim with growing anger that is badly concealed through forced calm. England nods, leaning both palms onto the desk.

"I like to think that the love we have for our children is like a lion. And what lion does not cringe to see its cub in pain and eradicate whatever threat stands in the way?" England's smile is sickly sweet and the president finds himself sinking lower and lower into his seat at the flash of murder in those green eyes. He clears his throat, siting up slightly.

"I don't take kindly to threats, Mr. Kirkland and-"

"Mon Dieu, will you shut up?!" The words are spat by Francis now, cold and full of enough rage to make the man falter and rise half out of his seat in retaliation. Arthur's hand is lightening quick, and Johnson freezes at the iron grip on his shoulder. France rises out of his seat, slipping on his coat and moving over to the desk, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. "I can personally assure you it has been a very long time since we have had to deal with any threats to our children. Pray that you haven't gotten onto that list."

"I trust that we won't be hearing any more calls to office for a while. Not until we extend communication first?" The words are practically growled from England's chest. The president nods shakily, suddenly noticing the slow rush of blood to his shoulder as the nations step back and move towards the door.

"Good day, Mr. Johnson." England states before stepping out followed by France.

 

The Washington air is crisp and cold as they step back into the carriage. The ride back home begins as soon as they shut the door behind them. A pair of violet eyes meet France's in a form of greeting from across the small space.

"That was quick." Matthew states, leaning his head against his father's shoulder before speaking again. "Did you talk to him?"

England snorts, momentarily giving his son's hand a squeeze while shooting a death glare at France who at the moment was trying to contain his laughter at the irony of the situation. He leans his head against the wall of the carriage, looking out at the pale grey sky. Canada's finger traces the scar over his left hand.

"Something like that."


	3. Chapter 3

1862

America blinks and it's morning again.

His body doesn't uncurl from its position on the bed, skin stretched tight amongst his bones and his sheets. His eyes close again and he lets out a breath at the slow ache coming back into his chest as the seconds pass.

Hit.

One heartbeat one.

Hit.

Two heartbeat two.

Hit.

Alfred waits until the painful rhythm sets itself before lifting himself up slowly off the bed and setting his bare feet on the cold floor. He runs a hand through his hair, wincing as the action itself seemed to bring on more discomfort in his body.

"You wanted to be a country," he says to himself. The lack of enthusiasm in the statement makes him unsure whether to laugh or cry.

It was like this

One heartbeat one.

Hit.

for everyone

Two heartbeat two.

Hit.

Hit.

Hithithithithithithithithithithithithithithihtihtihtihithit-

right?

He feels the rhythm stall when he opens the door to meet a pair of violet eyes.

His grip, unseen to the Canadian, has tightened on the doorknob. Matthew shifts from foot to foot before clearing his throat.

"Can I come in?"

America blinks, once, twice; the words have not quite reached his brain yet in order for him to decide a course of action. Canada frowns slightly, one foot stepping forward.

"Al?"

America twitches slightly and Matthew doesn't miss the movement. "S-sure."

He moves the door aside, watching the black carriage in the front that was so harsh against the grey landscape. Matthew steps in through the threshold, steps echoing through the practically empty house. He gives a low whistle of impression, looking around at the spacious interior.

"Nice place, Alfred. Did Lincoln give you this or-"

"What are you doing here, Matthew?"

Canada's small smile falters at his brother's question. "I-I haven't seen you in a while, that's all."

"And why would you need to?" Canada takes in the almost withering stance his brother has. His eyes note America's hand as it slips into the other and pitches at the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Wha-why would I need to?" Matthew's voice is a mix of annoyance and growing anger. "Because you haven't shown up for a meeting in months, if you don't realize, you've kind of got a responsibility as a nation-"

"And what would you about that?" Alfred snarls. The action with his hand is growing in intensity, enough that Canada can almost feel the discomfort as his own.

"I know enough that you've practically disappeared." The words are quieter now, and he sees the tensing of America shoulders before the words come out, seethed between a gritting set of teeth.

"Get out."

Canada blinks, taking one step toward his brother and for a moment he feels like a touch that wasn't quite there of they know they know they know everyone knows what you've done before it is shut off.

"Alfred-" Canada begins, only to feel his brother push him back with one hand and swinging the door open with the other before he is outside once more.

"I said, get out of my house." America snarls and the door is slammed in Matthew's face.

Inside, America locks the door behind him, moving to the living room and falling into the nearest chair. The pillow he grabs is almost torn by his hold before he lets out a scream into it, the sound muffled despite the empty house.

He doesn't even have to look at his hand to know he's bleeding again.

 

"Mr. Kirkland?"

The nation doesn't even look up from his pile of papers, pen in hand as he scanned through the slight chaos of his workspace. "Yes, what is it?"

He did not have time for this now.

"There's someone here to see you." The young maid said hesitantly before Arthur sighs.

"Tell whoever it is that I'm sick, out of town, or dead."

The maid shuffles from foot to foot before speaking again, hands wringing. "He says that he won't leave unless he sees you."

The pen is threatening to break underneath his grip and he waves a hand to dismiss her. As the door closes behind the young girl, he pauses to rub the side of his temple with his fingertips, trying to quell the migraine coming through before going back to the assortment of papers.

"Are you waiting for a formal introduction?" he snaps, not looking up. The stranger only hums slightly, moving closer to the desk and next words spoken make his actions of writing stop.

"Well I wouldn't want to put that kind of burden onto you, Angleterre."

Of course.

Green eyes snap up to take in the form of the lean and lanky Frenchman, with one hand up putting a cigarette to his mouth before his other tosses an opened letter onto his desk.

"We have a problem."


	4. Chapter 4

The dreams are the worst.

He's sitting now, feeling the coarse material of a tablecloth brushing his fingers before his head lifts up to regard the battle field with bodies upon bodies littered across the ground, stained with crimson and the pitiful, sobbing gasps of not yet dead men. The feast laid before him is a collection of meats and wine and cheeses and the figure at the other side of the table traces their fingers along the skull of a deer, light flowers of poppies and oleander blooming from the animal's mouth and eyes.

The man lying on the table does not breathe.

Neither does Alfred, who takes another look across, and blinks, a blurring in his vision for a moment before the crows peck at the now rotting pieces of flesh from the various assortments of meat.

The other smiles at him, golden boy grin on his young face and grey eyes look into blue. He sees himself in that body, this place, those eyes.

"I like it when it's just the two of us."

 

France takes another drag from the new cigarette, watching England from where he sat in the confinements of his office. The nation's back is turned, one arm on the mantle place and staring at the fire behind the grate.

"What do you expect me to do about this?"

Another drag and slow exhaling of smoke into the air. "It requires both of us." A part of him was amazed the other had actually let him stay for so long. Matthew had been at the least, frank, in the confines of the letter, requesting both their presence in Washington as soon as possible. The word "wrong" was echoing though both nations' heads, though they didn't want to admit it in the slightest. If anything, for the past fifty years, they had re-sparked their hatred towards each other and gained an apathy towards both of their former colonies.

Or so they wanted to believe.

Even with the current stalemate, England can feel the twinge in his stomach, the familiar and almost comforting flashes of parenthood (the word make him sick with the irony of it all) and security to be provided. He could watch America burn in his own folly for all he cared, see Canada fade into a subsection of British history but-

Alfred.

Matthew.

Alfred and Matthew and the sounds of their names in his head, on the tip of both parents' tongues is like a warm feeling, each syllable falling into place and they hate themselves for still-dare they even think it- caring.

History wasn't supposed to care. History and sorrow were part of their lives and a part of the world. France hated him, hated them both to an extent. The siding with America was more of a spite against the pain England had once again caused him, his own leaving a sort of end by which the means were their own stupid idea of protecting both boys from the world.

Now they can't even pull themselves together.

"What do you think we should do?" The words are heavy, and France flinches at Arthur's use of that particular pronoun.

He stretches slightly, butting the cigarette in the ashtray. "Whatever history would be so kind as to remember us for."

England scoffs, biting the inside of his cheek and turning to regard the other man with dark eyes. "Letting America fall or-"

Francis shrugs, staring into space. "Or grant him this one favor, despite everything."

"Despite," England laughs coldly, "you and I have made plenty of mistakes with that word in the midst of them."

France's eyes are looking out into the darkness of the street, the only sound being the occasional barking of a dog or carriage going by. "Were they a mistake?"

England doesn't answer, picking up the letter for a few moments before tossing it into the Frenchman's lap. "You write it." he deadpans, moving past him and out the door. "He always liked you best."

 

Somewhere across an ocean, the group of men talk amongst themselves within the confines of an office, words of treason and planning and morals float from one side to another across a space of miles and miles from New York to Mississippi.

The figure crouched on America's chest takes another bite out of the still beating heart, chewing soft and wet in the dark. Where will you go? Who are you now? it says with every bite, and America can feel the pain like the creature is sinking its teeth into his own skin. Grey eyes peer into his before the thing opens its mouth and America can see himself looking inside can see himself looking inside can see himself looking inside can see himself seem himself see them see them see them.

The sight makes him unsure whether to laugh or cry.

What will we do to each other?

He screams.


End file.
